“Phooey!” Karin snapped. “Your father left you and your brother a business with perfectly competent staff. He didn’t need to work twenty hours a day.”
She sailed toward the door, but then turned back again. “I can’t believe you’re still letting that pillock of a man do this to you.”
The heat previously consuming Debra transformed to ice—cold, brittle ice.
Karin continued, “Roger Tanner’s out there crowing to anyone who’ll listen, and you’re burying yourself in work like some bitter old woman. He was a sleaze-ball, Debra. He proved that quick enough.”
She glared across at her daughter. “So get over him. Get out and find yourself another man. A man worthy of you. Wake up and smell the roses, girl. You’re getting old before your time.”
The slam of her door left Debra slumped in her chair like an old sack of grain, drained and un-empowered. The relationship between her and her mother had been less than ideal for years.
Rather than criticise the awkward, gangly girl Debra had been, Karin had chosen to avoid any confrontations. Debra’s burning ambition to join her father’s company had befuddled the socialising Karin and drove them still further apart.
A myriad of emotions rolled through Debra before anger took control. She jerked up from her seat and stormed over to the large window overlooking Wellington’s harbour.
Her mother was wrong. She wasn’t still hankering for Roger. Nor was she hiding from the jerk who’d professed his love, inveigled himself into her heart, and then proceeded to pilfer their company data to forward his own business.
If she’d been able to categorically prove what he’d done, she’d have happily seen him in prison. Fingernails dug into her palms. She knew he still bragged around the city about his good fortune. She grimaced as she stomped back to her desk, dismissing Roger’s handsome face from her mind.
No, her mother was definitely way off base. Debra worked because she loved the challenge, the excitement and the satisfaction she got from it. That’s what made her work long hours.
****
With a jerk of his wrist Jase McEwan snuffed out the car’s quiet hum. Instead of the glorious silence he sought, infuriating rain drummed on the roof. The dribbling rivulets on the windscreen mocked him, their going-nowhere journey epitomising his life. How much longer would he continue to feel like drifting flotsam?
Hunched in the dark, bitterness warred with resignation. Nothing eased his hopelessness—not cursing life, not cursing fate, not even cursing the perpetrator of that career-killing rugby tackle. His head catapulted off the headrest as his fist slammed the steering wheel. He had accepted professional rugby was part of his past. But when would this deep sense of frustration and regret ease?
Dig deep; find the energy to face another day. He roused his lethargic body and slowly counted, matching deep breaths with the digits. To leave the car he had to loosen his stranglehold on the steering wheel. Six, seven, eight. Loosen his concreted fingers.
Thank God winter was almost over—just another few weeks. He could hold himself together for a few more weeks, couldn’t he? He shivered, thrusting aside memories from other winters—memories of intense training, competitiveness, success. Happiness.
Discontent tightened inside his stomach. Soon the rugby season would be put to bed for another year. He flexed his released fingers. No more constant reminders from newspapers, television, or the chatter of friends reminding him of what could have been—should have been.
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Jase’s body fell back into his seat. He stared into the surrounding blackness. Next year would be easier. It had to be. He couldn’t continue functioning like this. By next year more of his disappointment should wane.
And hey, don’t forget, everybody will be talking cricket soon.
Jase dragged his lanky form from the car with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner taking his final walk. Ignoring the squally shower’s skipping water across the puddled pavement Jase trudged across the car park.
He rubbed the persistent ache in his shoulder. The winter chill gnawed incessantly at the injury and was a constant reminder of his hopelessness.
Jase’s heart tripped and he stumbled at the edge of the glow of Riversleigh Resort’s main entrance. His mouth dried and the now-familiar tightening at the rear of his throat was back, threatening to choke him. Why?
The light wasn’t reminiscent of Twickenham, Ellis Park, or any other international rugby stadium. Hell, the sight wasn’t even reminiscent of the local Rugby Park in New Zealand’s southern-most city, Invercargill. So why did those images always materialize to haunt him? Every day this view reminded him of what he’d lost.
With his eyes clenched to obliterate the vision, he sucked in a deep breath and let it whoosh from his mouth with all the force of a tsunami conquering an unsuspecting beach. The mantra of numbers reverberated through his brain, his rigid lips mouthing the words until he’d regained his acceptable facade. He’d practised this pretence so many times he felt almost comfortable.
With measured determination he straightened his suit jacket and checked his tie. He’d conquered his demons again—for now. Jase drove back his broad shoulders and concentrated on lightening his gait as he strolled through the automatic doors.
The cheerful greeting he intended never sounded. Remembered bitterness had frozen his vocal cords. He tried again.
“Morning, people.” The words sounded harsh and scratchy to his ears. He hoped his twisted lips resembled some sort of smile and covered any perception of displeasure as he approached the main reception desk. The young porter’s scramble to attention suggested his expression was probably more grotesque.
“Good morning, boss,” the receptionist answered with the cheery smile required by her position. The night manager’s head shot from behind the office door and he pointedly checked the clock behind him.
“Hey boss-man, it’s not even five. You trying to catch us napping or something?”
His friend’s quip helped to further ease the tension inside him. “As I remember it, you were always too cunning to get caught,” Jase’s plastic smile turned genuine.
White teeth flashed as Hemi Nikau rounded the reception desk. He chuckled as he accompanied Jase past the bank of elevators and toward the administration offices at the back of the hotel. “What you need is someone warm in your bed. Coming to work at these ungodly hours would soon lose its appeal.”
Anxiety scoured Jase’s smile. The death of his career had signalled the death of his social life, too. Hell, in a town this small he already knew everyone and also knew there was zero chance of developing any meaningful relationship.
The girls he’d known at school were either long married or long gone. Fraternising with guests didn’t appeal. It wasn’t professional, nor could that type of socialising be the answer to his forlorn existence.
The vice around his chest tightened. Hemi expanding on his theory would only stab more pins into Jase’s still leaky self-control. With his mouth drier than the Sahara, he quickly changed the subject. “Anything I should know about?”
“It’s been dead quiet.”
“But?” Jase sensed his friend’s concern.
Hemi glanced over his shoulder toward the reception area before lowering his voice. “Something’s brewing, Jase. Everyone’s edgy. You have to muzzle that—”
Jase’s hand wrapped around the other man’s forearm, halting his words. He couldn’t allow a staff member, even a closely trusted staff member, to openly malign the woman running the resort. “I’m on it, Hemi. Just keep your ears open, keep me in touch with everything.” He eyeballed the other man. “Everything, Hem. I need to know what the hell is causing all this unrest. If it’s—”
“We all know who’s causing it, boss.” Certainty echoed in Hemi’s reply. “You just have to figure out what to do about her.”
The other man grimaced and wandered back to reception. Jase cursed, and then cursed again. Hemi was right. Subtle investigation over the last few weeks had pointed Jase directly toward the general manager of the resort—and his boss—Madeline Murphy.
Her mediocre management skills had become apparent to Jase almost as soon as he’d taken the job as operations manager. He’d covered for her, but defending her actions was proving more difficult every day. Her behaviour had become so erratic he even wondered about her mental health.
His stomach clenched to the hardness of a well-worn river stone as his worries magnified. Not only was his personal life a monotonous empty hole, his bloody job was unravelling too.
Before his eyes Jase could see this place disintegrating. Only a fool would suggest the resort was profitable. If staff unrest escalated into industrial action the hotel could close. He’d bet the executives in Wellington cared as much about the livelihood of the townspeople as a big fat Sylvester cared about the emotional duress of Tweety Bird.
Striding along the corridor to his office Jase thumped his thigh, hoping the repetitive action might jostle some useful brain cells. He needed to keep the staff calm and temper his boss’s outbursts. He wanted to figure a way to stave off any chance of industrial action, without calling Head Office.
****
Apart from a text advising she’d arrived safely at Riversleigh, Debra didn’t hear from her mother again that week. With her brother still in Singapore she was inundated with Paul’s workload as well as her own. She put her mother’s worries from her mind.
Her cell phone started chirping late one night just as Debra had fallen into bed. “Debra. This isn’t working.” Frustration was evident in Karin’s voice. “Madeline Murphy is fawning all over me. It’s disgusting how simpering she is. Ugh! My bones are telling me she’s the problem here, but I can’t find out anything definite except the staff all loath her...”
So what? This was probably a point in Madeline Murphy’s favour.
“The operations manager is being so helpful, though. He’s such a lovely boy...”
Oh, spare me. Debra pulled a face in the mirror opposite her bed. She’d seen Jason McEwan enough times on the rugby field to guess exactly what Karin thought was so “lovely” about him.
It was more likely the hotel’s problems had nothing to do with their general manager at all. The unprofitability was probably caused by his inexperience at hotel management. Debra shook her head as her mother’s voice rambled on in her ear. Hiring a broken down rugby player to help run a hotel! If she’d had anything to do with the hiring...
Suddenly the significance of her mother’s words became clear. Her head shot up, clunking itself hard against the headboard. “What did you say?” She tentatively touched the impact point, relieved her fingers found no sign of blood.
“Darling, aren’t you listening?”
I’m trying not to. Debra grimaced, holding the words captive. As calmly as her smouldering temper allowed, she queried, “I think I must have misheard you, Mother.”
“They’re short a waitress so I got Linda, Joyce’s daughter, to tell them she has a friend who would be perfect for the job.”
Debra’s fingers clamped the phone to her ear. Her neck, cheeks, and forehead burned, until she feared the torridness would burst through the top of her head. That whack had obviously given her concussion.
Her mother’s voice continued to ramble, its message forcing Debra to accept no internal damage had occurred. Her body craved oxygen but couldn’t filter past the obstruction in her throat. Desperate efforts to deepen her breathing slowly allowed her room to come back into focus.
“I am not coming to Riversleigh, Mother.”
“Don’t be silly, darling.”
Errg!
“Going undercover is the simplest and most certain way to discover what’s happening down here.”
Undercover? Omigod! Karin was playing with her, as she would a child, making up some intriguing adventure. Debra almost laughed. Her mother actually expected her to up stakes...Debra’s lips twisted at the absurdity of the suggestion. “We pay staff to ascertain what’s going on, Mother, because—”
Karin’s voice overrode her. Squirming on her bed Debra struggled to reject this feeling of powerlessness. What was the matter with her? She’d laboured so hard to evict her persona of the earlier inept Doleful Deb from her life. Her back stiffened. She’d be damned if that nondescript shadow was ever seeing daylight again.
Click the off button. Hurry up. You’re a powerful woman—a confident person used to giving orders. You make grown men quake in their boots.
Why can I never get the better of this one person?
She made one more desperate attempt. “Mother, I have no intention—”
Her mother’s voice of doom continued in her ear.
****
Two days later she stalked through the air tunnel into Invercargill Airport terminal. Her mother’s friend, Joyce, was there to meet her. Debra dredged up a polite smile as she was drawn into the woman’s arms.
“You look wonderful, Debra.”
Debra grimaced and extracted herself from the physical contact as deftly as possible. She’d borrowed a suitcase full of clothes from her cousin, Rebecca. Her own were hardly the quality a waitress could afford. Arriving with all brand-new items could also look suspicious.
While her cousin’s things fitted perfectly, they were more suited to Rebecca’s student lifestyle and hardly the type of clothes Debra normally wore. She knew she looked anything but wonderful.